


Harry Potter and the Consulting Detective

by riddlemesphinx, Wreck



Series: Harry Potter and the Consulting Detective [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, F/M, HP: EWE, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riddlemesphinx/pseuds/riddlemesphinx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreck/pseuds/Wreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the children of Britain begin to go missing without a trace, it's time to call in the country's best and brightest.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, along with Dr. John Watson, are asked to take on the case. But there are elements involved that are outside the realm of even Sherlock's understanding. When two strangers show up on the doorstep of 221B, calling themselves Aurors, Sherlock and John must quickly come to terms with the world of magic.</p><p>Harry Potter, head Auror, is more than willing to lend a hand to the consulting detective and his blogger. His partner, the cynical Draco Malfoy, is much less inclined to adapt to the Muggles, especially since it seems that the kidnappings have no ties to the magical world. When Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger join the team, will a balance be struck in time to save the children and catch the culprit?</p><p>NOTE: THIS WORK HAS BEEN ABANDONED. SORRY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Prime Minister Takes a Meeting

To be quite honest, the situation could simply not be ignored any longer. Despite the deliberate lack of media coverage, the press was becoming more aware of the real situation. They were going to start demanding answers, perhaps even cause panic. But the fact of the matter was that he could not– and _would_ not– admit what was plainly happening right under his nose. 

Which is how the Prime Minister found himself sitting stiffly behind his desk, with his guest relaxed and sipping tea. The Prime Minister had never had much contact with the other man– the less he knew, and all that– but he had no doubt that he was the right person for the job. He was unflappable, the Prime Minister had heard.

“I really appreciate you taking taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me this morning,” the Prime Minister said once they had both settled.

“Oh, I could never refuse a meeting with you,” his visitor replied smoothly. “Less important matters can always be rescheduled, you know.”

“Yes, well.” The Prime Minister coughed and tried to find a way to ease into the topic.

“Was there something you wanted to discuss or am I merely enjoying the pleasures of a social call?” the other man asked, with a small laugh, although there was little humor in the sound. In fact, he sounded almost impatient, as though the Prime Minister was wasting his time.

“Of course you are here for a reason,” the Prime Minister snapped, trying to gain control of the conversation again. The man motioned for the Prime Minister, who looked scandalized, to continue.

“Well, how shall I begin...” the Prime Minister stood up and began pacing behind his desk. “In the past few months, there has been a significant increase in the number of kidnappings across Britain. You may have read about one or two of the more prominent cases here in London– the families were well known, raised quite a fuss, naturally– but the rest have been kept much quieter.”

The man listened, though he appeared almost bored, as if he heard this sort of tale every day. But when he gave no indication that he was going to speak, the Prime Minister continued.

“We’ve brought in forensic experts and watched CCTV footage, but it just doesn’t make any sense.”

The Prime Minister sighed, sitting back down behind his desk and shaking his head.

The man across from him sipped his tea for a moment in thought. Finally, he asked calmly, “How many children so far?”

“Thirty, as of this morning,” the Prime Minister admitted grimly.

“And I assume you’ve been working with Interpol?”

“And consulting with the FBI – Federal Kidnapping Act, you know. Neither have any leads.”

“I see,” the man said, understanding dawning on him. “So, what you want is someone who can work on their own, and you’ve heard about my brother, so naturally you thought–”

His manner was so cool at the disappearance of so many innocent children that it infuriated the Prime Minister. He shot back out of his seat. “No, no, that’s not it!”

The man watched him now, confusion just barely discernible in his features.

“Don’t you understand?” The Prime Minister roared, clutching at his graying hair. “It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before. The children are completely missing; they’ve vanished without a trace. There are literally no signs of any break-ins or foul play; the few suspects we’ve had were weak at best, and they all had air-tight alibis.” The Prime Minister paused for effect. “There should have been a sign of one child, at least– a whisper, anything at all– in thirty cases. But no one has seen any evidence that these children are even missing, except for the fact that they are no longer in their homes. They have quite literally vanished as if by–” he stopped, and only the keenest of observers would have noticed how his eyes flickered over to a small portrait of a frog-like man in the corner.

“As if by magic,” the Prime Minister finished in a whisper.

Mycroft Holmes calmly returned his teacup to his saucer from where it had frozen halfway to his mouth when the Prime Minister had started his rant, and set both items on the table in front of him.

“Let me make some calls,” Mycroft said, standing and moving towards the door.

“But,” the Prime Minister spluttered.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, and the Prime Minister suddenly felt as though he were being scolded for arguing.

“Trust me,” Mycroft said, before retrieving his umbrella and showing himself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've had some questions about why the Minister brings up the FBI and the Federal Kidnapping Act:   
> "'And I assume you’ve been working with Interpol?'
> 
> 'And consulting with the FBI – Federal Kidnapping Act, you know. Neither have any leads.'
> 
> 'I see,' the man said, understanding dawning on him."
> 
> The understanding that is dawning on him is that the Minister has not only been working with local authorities, but since the FBI handles Kidnappings in the US (as per the Kidnapping Act), he has asked for their advice, resources, etc. Mycroft understands this right away and realizes the severity of the situation. We, the authors, know this takes place in London, thankyouverymuch. But it is normal procedure to consult with agencies that may have more experience or resources. That is what this exchange implies. Sorry for any confusion.


	2. In Which the Game is On

Harry Potter was enjoying a solitary breakfast in his flat when the silence was suddenly broken by a very deliberate sort of tapping at the window. Looking up from his coffee and Daily Prophet, the young Auror leaned over to unlatch the window for the familiar owl.  
  
“‘Lo, Hermes,” he said, choosing to ignore the self-important way that the bird landed right in the middle of the crossword he’d been working on. “What’s the Junior Minister need from me today?”  
  
The owl proffered its right leg, where a small scroll was neatly bound. Harry removed it gently and when Hermes immediately left the way he had come, Harry guessed a response was not expected. He unrolled the scroll and began to read:  
  
 _Harry,_ (there was never any pretense in Percy Weasley’s letters, a fact which Harry had come to appreciate after more than ten years as an Auror)  
 _I’ve been contacted by an old acquaintance of mine in the Muggle Ministry. A situation has arisen that is not only urgent, but requires the utmost discretion. I told my contact that I would contact the best people I knew for the job, so I’ll need you and your partner to make a visit to Muggle London as soon as you can. The address is 221B Baker Street. I’ll meet you there to make the introductions._  
 _Regards,_  
 _Percy Weasley_  
 _Junior Minister of Magic_  
  
Harry rolled his eyes at the signature. As though he needed reminding of Percy’s position in the Ministry-- but the older man had been signing all of his correspondence with his title since he made Head Boy back at Hogwarts.  
  
He had just decided to finish his breakfast before heading out when he was interrupted once more by a loud pop! and a rather insistent knocking at his front door. Harry gave his now-cold coffee a longing glance before making his way to the door.  
  
“Took you long enough to answer the door, Potter,” Draco Malfoy drawled from the other side. “Catch you at a _bad time_?”  
  
Harry ignored this suggestive jibe, just as he ignored nearly everything that came out of the blond man’s mouth. “Just finishing breakfast. Was about to Floo you, actually– Perce’s got a job for us.”  
  
Draco groaned loudly and slumped his way into the flat. “Honestly, do you ever say no to that man? Or any of the Weasleys, for that matter? It’s _pathetic_ , Potter, and he never has us do anything important. What’s he got for us now, then? Is it an escaped Flobberworm, or has he just run out of pompous stationery and needs us to fetch him more?”  
  
“You’re acting like a five year old,” Harry told him, handing over the scrap of parchment. He looked forlornly at his ruined breakfast. “Guess I’m ready to go whenever you are.”  
  
Draco followed his partner’s gaze. “Oh, don’t sulk. I’m sure we can grab a coffee when we get to–” he checked the parchment again. “–Baker Street. Can we go? I’ve got an appointment in Diagon Alley this afternoon, so the sooner we can get this over with, the better.”  
  
Harry frowned. “You don’t have to come, Malfoy.”  
  
“Yes I do, it says so on this bit of parchment. Stop trying to keep me from my job, Potter.”  
  
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Fine. Whatever it takes to shut you up.” He offered Draco his arm and when the other man simply stared in response, Harry grew exasperated. “ _What_?”  
  
“What on earth are you doing?”  
  
“Do you know where we’re going?” Harry snapped. “Or would you prefer to get splinched? By all means, go ahead.”  
  
“I haven’t needed to Side-Along in fifteen years,” Draco sniffed. “I’m sure I’ll make it just fine. If not, you can say ‘I told you–’”  
  
But a loud _pop_! interrupted his diatribe, and Draco suddenly found himself alone in the flat.  
  
“Now who’s acting like a five year old?” he muttered to himself before turning on the spot and vanishing.  
  
***  
  
“John,” Sherlock called in a stage whisper. “Cease all movement and don’t say a word.”  
  
John Watson paused, leaning forward on the couch, arm outstretched towards the laptop he had been in the process of grabbing.  Sherlock was leaning out of the kitchen to peer around the corner into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, listening intently. John gave Sherlock a wide-eyed, exasperated look and lowered his arm.  
  
“What are we doing?” John whispered back, feeling ridiculous.  
  
Sherlock waved away his question and stood stock still. After another moment, he slumped his shoulders and walked back into the kitchen.  
  
“What was that about?” John asked, sighing and leaning back into the couch.  
  
“I thought I heard something," Sherlock trailed off. "But it appears that it's just Mycroft."  
  
"Mycroft? What–?" But John was cut off by a knock on the door.  
  
Mycroft entered the flat, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and settled himself in a chair.  
  
"Doctor Watson," Mycroft nodded.    
  
John smiled in return and sat slightly awkwardly for a moment.  
  
"I'll just… um, tea?"  
  
"Lovely," Mycroft said, as John dashed past him and into the kitchen.  
  
He pulled the kettle off the stand and filled it with water before slamming it back on and flipping the switch. He then turned to Sherlock and cornered him between himself and the fridge.  
  
"Get out there," John hissed.  
  
"You get out there. I'm busy."  
  
"He's your brother."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Was that whole act earlier to pretend we weren't home?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, that would never work on Mycroft. I thought I heard something else earlier…"  
  
John studied Sherlock's face. He looked slightly confused, which was always an odd expression to see on his friend's face.  
  
"Are you two quite done in there?" Mycroft's voice broke their gaze and John quickly turned to the kettle. "I am on a schedule, thank you."  
  
John came back into the sitting room, tea in hand, Sherlock in tow. He shoved Sherlock onto the couch, sat down next to him, and gave him a pointed look before gesturing to Mycroft.  
  
"I have a case for you," he started.  
  
"Pass," was Sherlock's immediate response and he tried to push himself off of the couch. John pulled him back down.  
  
"I have a case," Mycroft continued as if there was no interruption, "that I think will greatly interest you. It's like no other case you've ever had."  
  
"Yes, they always seem that way, but they inevitably end up boring," Sherlock replied, attention already drifting.  
  
"I think you'll find that this will be the exception to that rule," Mycroft said confidently. "But why don't I let your partners tell you a little more about the circumstances and then we'll discuss the actual crime."  
  
"I don't need a partner. I already have a–!” Sherlock growled, jumping to his feet and pointing back down at John, who was watching the brothers with an expression of weary amusement. “I already have a John."  
  
"These are experts in their field, Sherlock," Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. "And they should be here momentarily."  
  
Sherlock looked at John, then at his brother, and then back to John, who just shrugged. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest again when, for the second time that morning, there came a knock on the door.  
  
To both Sherlock and John’s surprise, Mycroft stood up swiftly and opened the door. He came back into room shaking a the hand of a red-headed man, then gripping his shoulder in a friendly way as they exchanged pleasantries.  
  
As his brother and his acquaintance entered the room, Sherlock caught sight of the other two figures hovering in the doorway – the so-called experts.  They were both men, about thirty years old, and Sherlock could tell they were somewhat out of their element, though he couldn't tell why. The first one was tall, lithe, blond, and dressed impeccably in what was clearly a bespoke Italian suit. The second was a few inches shorter, with messy hair, glasses, and the kind of jumper he would expect to find on his flatmate.  
  
"Come on, Harry, do come in," the red-headed man said, gesturing them into the room.    
  
***  
  
Harry stepped through into the spacious flat with no hesitation. His partner, on the other hand, stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the wall opposite with unveiled disgust.  
  
“There’s a _skull_ on the _wall_ ,” Draco said, aghast. “It’s wearing... _earmuffs_? What are those? Weasley, where have you brought us now?”  
  
“Draco,” Harry huffed, grabbing the blond man by the wrist and yanking him into the room. “Now’s not the time to be yourself. And anyway,” he continued in a lower voice, “your great aunt’s idea of tasteful decorating was to hang the heads of House Elves on the wall– and you’re complaining about this?”  
  
Percy skillfully brought the awkward silence in the room to an end by clearing his throat loudly. “Mycroft, gentlemen, meet Harry Potter.” He paused for effect, looking somewhat imperiously around the room. Harry felt his face grow hot, and he shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet. Beside him, Draco burst out laughing.  
  
“Look, Potter, they’ve never even heard of you! Don’t get that too often, do you?”  
  
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry growled. To the other men in the room, he sheepishly offered his hand. “Nice to, er, meet you.”  
  
Mycroft took his hand and shook it briefly. “Yes, and you. My name is Mycroft Holmes, and may I introduce my younger brother, Sherlock, and his _friend_ , Dr. John Watson.”  
  
John shook Harry’s hand warmly, but Sherlock deferred, as his attention would not be torn from the blond man.  
  
“Oh, and this is Draco Malfoy,” Percy added as an afterthought. Draco’s lip curled in response to this, in his opinion, inadequate introduction.  
  
“Draco’s an interesting name,” Sherlock quipped, scrutinising the pale, pointed face for a reaction. Beside him, John sighed, knowing full well that the detective was trying to discern as much as possible about the newcomers. He just wished that for once, there might be a more tactful way to go about the whole business.  
  
Draco sneered. “‘Sherlock’ and ‘Mycroft’ aren’t exactly normal names, either. Draco is a family name– what’s your excuse?”  
  
Sherlock only smiled by way of response. John cleared his throat uneasily.  
  
“So, er. What...what, _exactly_ , are you two experts in?”  
  
All three of the visitors exchanged a look. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he watched the one called Harry nervously place a hand on his jeans pocket. Tilting his head curiously, the consulting detective noticed a thin, wooden handle jutting out from the denim. Judging by how the fabric here swelled out from the rest of the trousers, Sherlock could determine that the object, whatever it was, was roughly eleven inches long, quite thin, and made of wood. Next, he turned his attention to Percy and then Draco. A quick scan told him that they were each carrying a similar item concealed somewhere on their person. Percy’s– whatever it was– was hidden in the place of a pen inside the leather bound legal pad he carried. Draco’s, on the other hand, was stowed neatly in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upwards– he loved when things got interesting.  
  
“Excuse me,” Draco huffed, ignoring John’s question entirely. “I don’t mean to _keep_ anyone, but can someone explain why we’re here? If there’s a case, I, for one, would like to get started.”  
  
Mycroft sighed, and John caught his flatmate’s eye.  
  
 _Looks like you’re not the only one who can annoy him now_ , the doctor’s raised eyebrows seemed to say. Sherlock bit back a chuckle and John quickly dropped his eyes to the floor.  
  
“A string of kidnappings has been making its way across the whole of Britain, gentlemen,” Mycroft explained. “It is a situation that was horrifying from the outset, and has risen to such a great intensity that it can no longer be ignored. Thus far, over thirty children have been abducted from their schools and homes, some from right under the noses of their families.”  
  
Harry glanced at Percy. “Are they–?”  
  
The redhead shook his head briefly. “No. None at all.”  
  
Draco sneered. “‘None at all’? What’s this got to do with us then?”  
  
The sound of a throat being cleared drew the attention in the room back to Mycroft. “The children are disappearing without a single trace, and without anyone noticing until it’s far, far too late.”  
  
“So, you think–?” Harry asked, trailing off again.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft and Percy said as one.  
  
“Sorry, but is anyone going to finish a sentence?” John asked, giving the room an exasperated look. “Or let _us_ know what’s going on?”  
  
Percy frowned. “You must understand that anything we tell you is of a highly confidential and sensitive matter. Nothing to be repeated when you go down the pub or– Harry, what are you laughing at?”  
  
Harry tried to reign in his mirth. “Just never thought I’d hear you say something like ‘go down the pub’, Perce.” His mouth twitched and his eyes shone with amusement. “Sorry, carry on.”  
  
“I’ve told you before, Mycroft. I only like mystery on one side of my cases. I haven’t the patience for both,” Sherlock said, a dismissive air in his tone. He was getting bored, and he loathed being bored.  
  
His brother gave him a withering look. “This is quite serious, Sherlock Holmes. This information cannot end up on some ridiculous _blog_ about your capers with the doctor.”  
  
“Oi!” John yelped indignantly. “My blog’s not _ridiculous_! It gets thousands of views every day!”  
  
“A BLOG?” Draco sneered, re-alerting the squabbling trio of the presence of the three strangers. “What on earth is a _blog_? It sounds like a _disease_.”  
  
Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh as John looked at the blond man with undisguised surprise. “Either you tell us what we’re dealing with, or I walk away from the case, brother dear. It’s as simple as that.”  
  
“We’re wizards,” Harry blurted out.  
  
***  
  
The six men stared at one another, none daring to speak, until the silence was broken by a muffled snort from John. Immediately, the two residents of 221B Baker Street were lost. Sherlock’s laugh was low where John’s was high; they clutched at one another’s shoulders like drowning men to life preservers, completely unaware of the affronted looks on their visitors’ faces.  
  
“Care to share with the class?” Draco asked, after a moment.  
  
“Good one, Mycroft,” John wheezed.  
  
“Even I didn’t see that coming,” Sherlock added. “And I suppose the weapons they’re all hiding are meant to be their wands?” John fell into a renewed fit of laughter and the three visitors looked stunned. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. His is in his jeans pocket, his in his jacket pocket, and his is in his steno pad. Not exactly difficult.”  
  
Mycroft sank into John’s armchair, looking solemn. “This is very serious, boys. I’d appreciate if you could behave a bit less like children about this.”  
  
There was a very still moment within 221B Baker Street. The three visitors, the supposed “wizards”, stood round, casting worried looks at one another. Harry and Draco, in particular, seemed to be communicating in telegraphed eyebrow messages while Percy looked on. John and Sherlock slowly allowed their laughter to subside, and as the two of them took in the mood of the rest of the flat, their faces grew more and more incredulous.  
  
“You can’t seriously expect us to believe–” John spluttered.  
  
In a swift movement, Draco had withdrawn his wand from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His compatriots made noises of protest, and Draco addressed them without breaking the fierce gaze he had locked upon the detective and his blogger. “All they want is proof. If things go wrong, Harry, I seem to remember that you trained with the Obliviators for a few months. I’m sure you’ll work out what to do. Weasley? You just stand there, it’s about all you’re good for, anyway.”  
  
Percy looked scandalized, but Harry nodded curtly. Draco’s lip curled upwards as he held up both of his hands to the men in front of him. “Nothing up my sleeves,” he drawled. Without any further preamble, he turned on the spot and, with a loud _pop!_  that set John’s jaw on edge, he disappeared.  
  
As John spun in a few baffled circles on the spot, Sherlock’s eyes grew wider and wider. There was another, fainter _pop!_ from the back of the flat, and Draco strolled out from Sherlock’s bedroom, running a familiar bit of fabric through his hands.  
  
“Nice scarf,” he remarked as he rejoined the others, twining the fabric around his fingers in an evaluating manner.  
  
“How did you... What did you...” John started, staring openly at Draco. “You were right there and then you weren’t.  Sherlock? Did you see–”  
  
“Well, that explains the noise earlier, I should think,” Sherlock said calmly.  
  
“That man just disappeared and then walked right out of your room.  How can you be so calm?”  
  
“Oh right,” Sherlock moved forward and snatched the scarf out of Draco’s hands. “It’s Loro Piana Cashmere, thank you.”  
  
“Is it?” Draco’s eyebrows raised. “Did you have that imported or–”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat loudly and Harry kicked Draco sharply in the ankle.  
  
“What?” Draco hissed.  
  
“If we could get back to business then,” Mycroft interjected before Harry could continue.  
  
“Everyone seems to have taken that rather well,” Percy said, ignoring the fact that John had sunk back onto the couch, shaking his head. “Harry and Draco are what we call Aurors. They are an elite branch of our Magical Law Enforcement – our version of your police – and respond to more severe crimes, like the mistreatment of Muggles – that is to say, non-magic people, like yourselves. They also specialize in the tracking and apprehension of Dark wizards.”  
  
“Aren’t you a bit young to be on such an elite team?” Sherlock asked, as if everything else Percy said made complete sense to him.  
  
Draco burst out laughing. “I can’t get over how great it feels to be somewhere where no one knows you as ‘The Boy Who Lived.’”  
  
Seeing as this only produced confused looks, Harry offered, “It’s a long story, but, yes, normally we would be considered to be on the younger side.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Harry!” Percy exclaimed, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “This man here saved the Wizarding World by defeating the most powerful Dark wizard of our age.”  
  
Harry turned bright red and shuffled back and forth. Draco rolled his eyes, John looked somewhat impressed by this information, but Sherlock regarded him as though he were trying to x-ray him. Harry was immediately reminded of his Occlumency lessons with Snape and if he didn’t know better, he would think that the man was performing Legilimency on him.  
  
Half to prevent Percy from listing off Harry’s accomplishments, and half because he was beginning to get unnerved by Sherlock, Harry met his gaze and asked, “So, what exactly do you do then?”  
  
“I’m self-employed,” Sherlock said noncommittally.  
  
Mycroft sighed. “My brother is in the business of––”  
  
“I prefer to think of it as a hobby,” Sherlock cut in. Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
  
John cleared his throat and stepped in. “Well, it’s a hobby that pays the bills. He’s a consulting detective. He...well, he _helps_ the police solve crimes they’re stuck on.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “Which is _all_ the crimes.”  
  
“Er...right,” Harry said, still looking a bit unsure. “Makes sense, I suppose. And you, John?”  
  
“I’m a doctor.”  
  
“A _doctor_?” Draco scoffed. “What is that, like a Muggle Healer? How is that helpful?”  
  
John stared at the blond man in surprise. Several times, he opened his mouth as though to make a reply, and several times he faltered. His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched as he attempted to regain his composure. Finally, he said, “I’ve saved lives. Maybe that’s helpful and maybe it’s not, but it’s what I do.”  
  
“I’m sorry, did I miss something?” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Have any of these children been hexed to the point where we need a–” his fingers formed quotation marks in the air. “–’doctor’ to save their lives? I thought they’d simply gone missing.”  
  
“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, glaring at his partner. “Just because you don’t understand what he does, that doesn’t make it unimportant.”  
  
John’s face and ears were red, and he stared straight at the wall as he spoke. “Can I offer anyone some tea?”  
  
Without waiting for a response, he executed an about-face and left the room. Sherlock watched his flatmate go, knowing that the man was only leaving in order to keep the situation from getting any more unpleasant. He turned to Draco, careful to keep his face impassive.  
  
“John is indispensable to me–– to my work,” he said quietly, “and you’d do well to remember that.”  
  
Draco sniffed haughtily, but Percy interrupted what was bound to be another tirade.  
  
“You need to be more open to working with these gentlemen, Malfoy. This case cannot be solved by either one of your teams alone.”  
  
“Actually, Perce...” Harry began, “I was wondering if we might need to add a few more people to the group.”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “This is a very sensitive issue, Mr. Potter, and we’re trying to avoid media exposure. The best way to do that is to involve as few people as possible. Do you really think adding to the team is necessary?”  
  
A younger Harry might have looked away; might have deferred to the older man’s authority. This Harry, however, did not back down. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. I know that discretion is important. But we’d be cutting our chances of solving this thing in half if we didn’t include Hermione Granger. She’s the cleverest person I know.”  
  
“Cleverer than Sherlock?” John re-entered the room, carrying a tea tray that he placed on a side table–– one of the flat’s only clear surfaces. He glanced at Sherlock. “Think you can handle that?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t bat an eye. “I hardly think that will be a problem.”  
  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said warningly.  
  
“Biscuit, brother?” Sherlock shot back calmly. “Though do be sure to save some for our guests.”  
  
John tried very hard not to smile. “Boys, not now.”  
  
Harry and Percy both moved towards the tea tray, and Harry decided to try and press his luck once more.  
  
“And you know...if she comes along, we can’t really leave your brother out...” he said in a low voice, trying to win Percy over before dealing with Mycroft.  
  
“Harry, this is _not_ a social gathering,” Percy said. His voice was laced with exasperation.  
  
“I hate to say that Weasley has a point, Potter, but...” Draco drawled, ignoring the tea in favour of making himself comfortable in Sherlock’s chair. Harry shot his partner a withering look.  
  
“Come on, Perce,” he continued. “You know Hermione would just tell him everything anyway. You’d be cutting out the middle man if you just let him come with her. And besides, you know he can be dead useful, too.”  
  
Draco snorted. “Useful at eating, maybe.”  
  
“I suppose you’re right,” Percy sighed, ignoring Draco. “Mycroft, if we just add two more to our ranks, would that be acceptable to you?”  
  
Sherlock was trying unsuccessfully to overlook the fact that his chair had been commandeered. Without looking at Harry or Percy, he said, “More people on a case does not always help. In fact, it usually just makes things worse.  Take Anderson, for example, he always thinks he’s needed on a crime scene when really the amount of good that he does–”  
  
“Percy, can you vouch for this Hermione?” Mycroft asked, cutting Sherlock off.  
  
Sherlock and Draco both looked annoyed at the prospect of adding to their team. Draco looked downright mutinous at the thought of having to work with not only Granger, but another Weasley as well. Percy ignored them both and addressed Mycroft seriously.  
  
“She would certainly be an asset. She and Harry have always worked well together in the past. In fact, when they were still in school, and Harry was still working to defeat––”  
  
“ _Enough_ , Percy,” Harry interrupted. “Honestly, they don’t need to hear the whole story.”  
  
“Thank Merlin!” Draco agreed. “It’ll be bad enough to have to deal with the three of you working together again. No one, including and especially myself, needs to hear stories of how wonderful you all are. And don’t think you’ll be ditching me to hang out with your friends, Potter. This is still a job and I am still your partner, loathe though I sometimes am to admit it.”  
  
John caught Sherlock’s eye and gave him a look, as though to say, _We’d better watch out for this one, then._  
  
“Hermione Gran–– er, sorry. Hermione _Weasley_ is a consummate professional, Mycroft,” Percy said after a moment, straightening his suit jacket just to busy his hands. “I trust her to stay discreet and do her best work.”  
  
“Very well,” Mycroft answered. “But no one else, Percy. The whole operation is growing too large as it is.”  
  
Percy nodded, then turned hesitantly toward Sherlock. “Er. May I just...use your fireplace? I won’t take but a moment.”  
  
“Try not to touch anything,” the other man responded coolly. Draco smirked in appreciation, then lazily flicked his wand at the tea tray. A mug drifted toward him, not spilling a drop, and a biscuit trailed along after. John gaped.  
  
“Show off,” Harry muttered under his breath.  
  
“But...” John began, shaking his head as though to clear it. “What’s he want with our fireplace?”  
  
Sherlock followed the red-headed wizard into the other room, watching as he stepped awkwardly around the piles of chaos that stood sentinel in front of the fireplace. Curious, he looked on as Percy withdrew his wand and, with a single movement, started a roaring fire.  
  
 _“Jesus Christ_ ,” John muttered to himself, sitting down heavily in his own armchair. He had seen many things in his lifetime, but he had never experienced anything more surreal than this. He had no clue how Sherlock could be dealing so calmly with the fact that magic was real. From his somewhat awkward position, he looked on while Percy retrieved some powder from a small pouch and threw it into the flames. But when the man knelt and stuck his head into the now-green flames, saying what sounded like an address, John could not control himself.  
  
“Are you bloody _mad_?!” he yelped, lurching out of his chair in an effort to reach Percy before his entire body caught fire. “What are you _doing_?!”  
  
Harry gently caught his wrist. “It’s all right, John. He’s fine, really. Just making a quick call through the Floo Network; it’s faster this way. “  
  
Draco rolled his eyes as he sipped his tea. “For a doctor, he doesn’t seem to handle shock very well, does he? Saves lives... _right_.”  
  
“F-f-flue network?” John asked a bit shakily, choosing to ignore Draco. It wasn’t as though he was unused to working with people who often made him want to punch them.  
  
“Yeah, it’s just one of the ways we can communicate with each other. Much faster than sending a message by owl.”  
  
John just laughed. “Owl? Haven’t you lot ever heard of mobiles? Texting?”  
  
“Oh, that’s right,” Mycroft said suddenly. “Mr. Potter, we’ll have to equip you and your partner with some of our basic technology, just to make it easier for you to communicate directly with my brother and John.” He busied himself by making a phone call to his assistant while Draco looked horrified.  
  
“You can’t seriously expect me to use _Muggle_ technology,” he huffed. Harry rolled his eyes.  
  
“You’ve never had problems accepting things from people before, Malfoy, and you won’t even have to use it unless you need to.”  
  
After contacting Hermione and his brother, Percy backed up into a standing position and nearly stumbled over Sherlock, who was hovering unabashedly. “Oh! Er. Right. Well, they said they were on their way. They should be here shortly.”  
  
“Brilliant,” Harry replied, before turning his attention to the older Holmes brother. “So, Myc–– er, Mr. Holmes. You’ve been aware of...well, us for a while now. Is there anything else you think your brother and his–– er, and John should know?” He shifted awkwardly in place. “It’d be best if we could get some of the bigger surprises out of the way now, in case we need to be moving quickly in the field.”  
  
John drew himself up, looking directly at Draco. “I think I can manage, thanks.”  
  
Draco snorted disdainfully. “Great, sounds like another bloody Gryffindor. I’m _surrounded_.”  
  
“I have a few questions,” Sherlock said suddenly. Harry turned to him expectantly. “Can you––”  
  
“Yes,” Draco interrupted, sounding bored.  
  
“And what about––”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sherlock looked unperturbed. “And if there is a––”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said again.  
  
“Well, I’m satisfied for now,” Sherlock said agreeably, finally reaching for his own cup of tea.  
  
“Glad to have helped?” Harry said, looking completely bewildered.  
  
Mycroft smiled patronizingly at his brother. “You’re never satisfied for now.”  
  
“He’s got a point, Sherlock,” John said.  
  
Before the argument could get underway, however, the bell rang. After a few moments, the voice of Mrs. Hudson could be heard from below.  
  
“Boys! Two more here to see you!”


	3. In Which There Are Clues to Be Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're awful. Well, _we're_ not awful, but sometimes life is-- always getting in the way of things we really want to do! It's our goal to make this a really strong, enjoyable story, and so it's hard to rush chapters out when there isn't the time to make them as perfect as we want them. Hopefully we haven't lost all of you wonderful readers, and even if we have, hopefully this chapter will reel you back in!

“Well, that could have been worse,” Harry observed, once Draco had Apparated next to him at the end of a street that reminded him of Privet Drive – nearly identical houses with perfectly manicured lawns.

“Considering that disaster is never far behind when there’s at least one Weasley around, and since their flat hasn’t been reduced to ashes, yes, Harry, that easily could have been worse.”

“Your sarcasm, as always, is much appreciated, Malfoy, thank you.”

Draco smirked and started down the street towards the third house on the left, the home of one of the kidnapped children – one of the ones that had been kept out of the media spotlight. Mycroft had hoped that the lack of media would make the family more inclined to talk to the two Aurors. Harry ignored the twinge of familiarity in the pit of stomach as he followed his partner. This neighbourhood was _not_ Privet Drive, he reminded himself. Still, he lagged behind, dragging his feet, and arrived on the front porch only after Draco had rung the bell.

A woman opened the door by a small fraction, hiding the rest of her body behind it. Her face was drained of colour but for the shock of purple and grey below her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was high and small. “C-can I h-help you?” 

“Hello, ma’am,” Harry said gently, holding out his recently-acquired ID badge. Mycroft had insisted that they use that title of Consulting Detectives when dealing with Muggles, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. “We’re working with Scotland Yard on the recent disappearances. We hoped we might be able to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”

The woman, who looked to be consistently on the verge of tears, began to tremble. “We’ve already told the police everything we know,” she whispered. “My husband doesn’t think there’s anything you can do, he says–”

“Margaret? Who’s at the door?” The male voice that boomed down the corridor seemed impossibly familiar to Harry.

“It’s Scotland Yard again,” she called back timidly. “They have more questions about W-william.”

The floorboards towards the back of the house began to creak as heavy footsteps started toward them. Draco glanced over at Harry and noticed the colour draining from his partner’s face. “Problem, Potter?”

Harry didn’t answer. The footsteps came closer. The man spoke again.

“We’ve told you everything we bloody well know, as I told you the last time your lot came round. ‘Don’t come back until you’ve found my son,’ I think I said. And since I don’t hear his voice, I think I can assume that–”

Harry stared at the man who had just arrived in the entryway. The man stared at Harry. Margaret and Draco both stared at each other. 

“You’d better let them in, Margaret,” Dudley Dursley said at last. “I think they may be the only ones who can help us.”

***  
It took Sherlock approximately two minutes and seventeen seconds to become utterly vexed by Hermione Granger-Weasley. John watched the disdain boil over, rising as a faint stain of red high on his cheeks. He couldn’t wonder why– she was every bit as clever as she’d been advertised to be, and equally cognizant of her intellect as Sherlock was of his own. The young woman had marched into 221B with a sense of purpose that John had not often seen outside of the RAMC. Her husband trailed along after her, his hair alone identifying him as Percy’s brother. Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea, arrived shortly afterward, bearing new forms of identification for the entire team and mobile phones for Harry, Draco, and Hermione. 

“I think it would be best to send the pair of you out to interview the families,” Mycroft said to Harry and Draco. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but his brother cut him off. “You can give them a list of things to look for, Sherlock. But these people are sensitive. We don’t need you haranguing the Commonwealth today.”

When the Aurors were equipped with a collection of addresses and a long list of particulars from Sherlock, the group dispersed. Mycroft, Percy, and Anthea left together, disappearing into the black Jaguar parked illegally on the curb. Draco and Harry Disapparated from the kitchen with a doubly loud _POP!_. John jumped, shaking his head at himself afterward.

“Never get used to that,” he muttered, forcing a laugh. Ron smiled sympathetically, but Hermione seemed fixated on Sherlock.

“I did a bit of research on you before we got here,” she said primly.

Sherlock heaved a sigh as he dropped into his chair. “And here we go. Find anything interesting?”

“Do you _really_ not know that the earth revolves around the sun?” 

“Oh, for the love of–– it’s not _useful_ information!” Sherlock cried as John failed to hide his smile. “It doesn’t _change_ anything whether we go round the sun or round the moon or any of that. I leave room in my mind for the _important_ things. And _you_ –” he whirled on John. “You are going to delete that from your blog immediately, before I have to suffer any more inane questions on the topic of our solar system.”

“That just sounds like an excuse to me,” Hermione replied shrewdly, ignoring the detective’s petulant outburst. “Of course astronomy is _important_. The very fact that we revolve around the sun impacts a tremendous amount of variables. It seems to me that you’re rather limiting yourself with what you believe to be important, and you’re leaving yourself open to a very wide margin of error.”

It was disconcerting, and yet somehow no less enjoyable, to witness Sherlock experience the sensation of being measured and found wanting. 

“A wide margin of _what_?” Sherlock hissed, narrowing his eyes at the young woman.

“'Mione,” Ron warned, just as John said, “Sherlock,” in the same tone. The two men glanced at one another and Ron quirked another smile. 

“I am never wrong,” Sherlock said, his voice low and dangerous. Hermione tucked a strand of her curly brown hair behind her ear as she reached for one of the file folders Mycroft had left behind.

“We’ll see about that.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet and snatched up a second folder, glaring daggers at the witch in his sitting room. Ron looked at the doctor, who was folded comfortably in his armchair. 

“Should we help?” he asked. “I mean, d’you think they’d let us?”

“I’ve found it’s best to wait to be asked,” John replied amiably. “And since they’re both trying to outdo each other, I think it’ll be a while before that happens.”

Ron nodded and moved to occupy Sherlock’s vacated seat. He fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat and retrieved a box that John rather suspected was too large to have actually fit where it had been stored. The redheaded man pressed something on the side of the box that John could not see, and it sprang open, revealing a full-sized chess set.

“Fancy a game?” Ron asked, and John smiled.

“Love one.”

***

For all of the strange things he’d encountered in his relatively short life, Harry Potter never once expected anything as odd as being offered tea by his cousin’s wife while sitting next to Draco Malfoy in a Muggle sitting room. In fact, he could picture his sixteen-year-old self laughing at the suggestion that this event could ever occur in his future. Well, things certainly had changed.

When Margaret laid out tea for everyone and sat herself down next to her husband, the awkward silence suddenly became very apparent. Draco jabbed Harry’s ribs with his pointy elbow, disguising the gesture by reaching for a tea cup. 

“So, what’s it been now? Ten years?” Harry finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Fourteen.” Dudley responded, nearly cutting Harry off. “It was that summer... just after?” Dudley looked down at his tea, face slightly flushed.

“Right. Fourteen years...” Harry trailed off.

“So, I take it you two are acquainted then?” Draco asked.

“Draco, this is my cousin, Dudley. Dudley, this is my partner, Draco Malfoy,” Harry rushed to make the introductions, as the two men he never thought would meet actually shook hands. 

“And this is my wife, Margaret,” Dudley added when Harry looked at a loss as to how to introduce her. 

When everyone had resettled, Harry turned to Dudley again, “Look, I’m sorry that we haven’t been in touch – I figured you didn’t much want to be – and these aren’t the ideal circumstances to be meeting your family for the first time. But Draco and I are here to help, so instead of treating this like an investigation, why don’t you tell me about your son and your family, as if we were catching up. You may find that you give us information you didn’t even know was important this way.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow at Harry, seemingly impressed at his ability to take control of the situation. Harry smiled at his partner, then turned back to his cousin, nodding in, what he hoped was an encouraging manner. 

Dudley held his wife’s hands in his lap as he started to tell his estranged cousin about his family. William Vernon Dursley – or Willy as they mostly called him – was born in 2008, which was “about time, according to my Mum. She was dying for grandchildren and Margaret and I waited a few years after we got married,” Dudley said this with a more humorous tone than Harry had ever heard his cousin use, and yet he could still hear the strain in Dudley’s voice. 

It felt so surreal, Harry sipping tea and chatting – _chatting!_ – with his cousin about his family. Even stranger was having Draco sitting next to him, munching on a shortbread biscuit and nodding along as Dudley told them about Willy’s first birthday (at Margaret’s parents’ house); a trip to the country where Willy had developed an obsession with tractors; Willy’s favourite stuffed animal, Loomis the Llama; and the regular “surprise” visits that Dudley’s parents made, trying their best to spoil Willy just as they did Dudley. 

“Does Willy go to one of those Muggle–” Draco started, but cut himself off when Harry’s boot collided with his ankle under the coffee table. 

“What Draco means to ask is, does William go to nursery school?” Harry asked.

It was Margaret who answered, breaking her silence for the first time since they had all sat down. “Shooting Star Nursery, just in town. But he’s only been there a few months and he was here when...” She broke off with a choked sob. Dudley wrapped his arm around her. 

“Did you ever notice anyone strange around the nursery?” Draco asked, directing his questions back to Dudley. 

“No, of course not. We wouldn’t have sent Willy somewhere we weren’t comfortable with.”

“And do you have any debts or–”

“What are you implying?” Dudley roared, cutting Draco off mid-sentence and turned to glare at his cousin. Harry saw a flash of the Dudley he know from years before: Uncle Vernon’s son, the bully.

“We’re not implying anything, Dudley. Honestly,” Harry insisted. “We just need all the facts. We need to cover any possible reason that your son might have been taken from you.”

“We need to know everything,” Draco continued. “Things you might not have told the police, or anyone else for that matter.”

Dudley and Margaret looked at each other and seemed to come to some silent agreement. 

“The only people we owe money to are my parents,” Dudley said gruffly. Harry could tell that it cost his cousin a tremendous effort to make this confession. “Three months ago, they insisted we move to a better neighbourhood. We didn’t want to–– we were happy where we were. But then...”

Margaret clutched at her husband’s hand like a lifeline. “That’s when the kidnappings started. One of the first children who...who...” Fresh tears washed down her face, and she struggled to continue. 

“Disappeared?” Draco asked, his patience clearly starting to run thin. Harry shot him a warning look as Margaret nodded.

“Yes. They lived just round the corner from us. It was...well, I was terrified. But we couldn’t afford to move, not so quickly. And Vernon and Petunia...they’d offered to help, of course. It was wonderful of them.”

“But it didn’t help,” Dudley cut in bitterly. “Sometimes, I wonder...” he trailed off, curling his free hand into an over-large fist. “I wonder if they would have taken Willy no matter where we were.”

“Dudley!” his wife cried, but Harry leaned forward in his chair, looking very serious. “Dudley, do you really think that? Do you think your son was intentionally targeted?”

His cousin met his eyes without flinching and nodded once. “I do.”

Harry turned to face his partner. “If there’s any kind of proof of that, we may have our first break.”


	4. In Which Sherlock Holmes is Forced to Rely on Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your patience. It was never our intent to abandon you, but some major life events refused to get out of the way so that we could write. Between the two of us in the past year, there has been: a cross-country move, a career change, an engagement, and several holidays with our families to manage. We hope you understand and forgive us for our prolonged absence!
> 
> We promise that from now on, we have devised a posting schedule that should allow for a more regular posting schedule (basically, we won't post the next chapter until the one following it is at least halfway finished). In this way, we hope to give you all a more consistent update schedule and a definite progression to the story. Again, thank you so much for bearing with us, and we hope you enjoy the latest installment!

When the two Aurors arrived back at 221B Baker Street, the uncertain peace that they had left behind had long since shattered. Mrs Hudson let them in the front door just as a high-pitched shriek of indignation rang out from upstairs.

“I DID NOT GO FOR MY DEGREE TO ‘HAVE SOMETHING TO FALL BACK ON!'”

“Was that... _Granger_?” Draco said, rubbing his ears. Harry nodded, looking grave.

“Her voice only gets that high when someone’s telling her she’s wrong.”

Harry and Draco made their way carefully up the stairs and stood in the doorway of 221B. Hermione was standing in a familiar pose: wide stance, hands at her hips, and glaring at her husband.

“Thats not what I meant–” Ron started, but Hermione cut him off with a sharp “No one asked you, Ronald!”

“And as for you,” Hermione spun on her heel and faced Sherlock, “I’ll have you know that not only did I get an O in Potions on my NEWTS––”

“Whatever that means,” Sherlock mumbled.

Harry and Draco slipped quietly into the room, half amused, half scared by the way that Hermione and Sherlock were glaring daggers at each other. John vacated his position on the couch, moving into his chair, as Ron waved the Aurors over. 

“They’ve been at it for ages,” Ron murmured, leaning against the arm of the couch.

“I can tell,” his best friend replied, eying the human thunderstorm that was Hermione. Her hair had always seemed to grow in proportion to her anger or frustration, and it was currently going for a new record. 

“Usually, I spend most of my time wondering how Sherlock can be as brilliant as he is,” John said, keeping his voice low. “I never stopped to think there might be someone else like him.”

“Me, I’ve had _nightmares_ about there being anyone else like Granger,” Draco drawled, and Harry couldn’t help but snort. Suddenly, he found himself the involuntary focus of two very angry geniuses.

“Well?” demanded Sherlock. “Did you miraculously manage to bring me information that I can actually use, or will I have to go on my own after all?”

“Don’t listen to him, Harry,” Hermione snapped, stepping primly in front of the consulting detective. (This achieved next to nothing, as the man stood nearly a foot taller her, but she pretended not to have noticed.) “I’m sure you and Draco did just fine. Just tell us everything you found out, even if you don’t think it would be helpful.”

“Well, I–” Harry began, but Sherlock’s loud scoff cut him off. Though she was clearly refusing to turn around, Hermione’s entire body stiffened, and Harry could have sworn he saw her hair grow outward by another few centimetres. 

“‘Even if you don’t think it would be helpful’?” Sherlock sneered, raising his voice by an octave to mimic Hermione. From his chair by the fire, John sighed and rubbed his temples wearily. “As if either of them actually knew what I would find helpful– there was absolutely no reason for me not to visit the crime scene. It was only a waste of time, because now I’ll have to go back and reexamine it for myself.”

“Actually, we–” Harry tried again, but it was too late. Hermione had finally rounded on Sherlock, and the two were falling back into an argument that Harry assumed had begun moments after they’d left the flat that morning. 

“Excuse me,” Draco said, to no effect. Calmly, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and removed his wand. Pointing it at the squabbling pair in front of him, he murmured, “ _Silencio_!”

Slowly, comically, Hermione and Sherlock both turned to face the blond man with the exact same murderous look in their eyes. John stared, slack-jawed, at his flatmate. Hermione glared at Malfoy and mouthed something that looked an awful lot like the kind of word Harry would have expected out of Ron. She then turned and glared at Harry and Ron in turn, who both suddenly became very interested in the the Muggle newspaper that was sitting on the coffee table. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to have replaced his anger with fascination. He was sliding his fingers up and down his neck, prodding at his vocal cords with scientific interest, and opening and closing his mouth around silent words. John had been about to turn on Malfoy and demand that he undo whatever he had done to Sherlock, but the words seemed to have died on his lips. He was suddenly distracted as he stared at his flatmate, watching Sherlock’s long fingers on his own neck with an odd expression on his face. Besides, he figured if Harry and Ron seemed to only be worried about Hermione’s rage, what Malfoy had done couldn’t be that serious. 

“Now that I have everyone’s attention,” Draco drawled. “Potter?”

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Harry said, surprised to find that he actually meant it. He cleared his throat, watching for a moment as Sherlock attempted to do soundlessly do the same. “Listen, you won’t have to go back to the crime scene. You’re not going to find anything there.”

By way of response, Sherlock pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and began texting furiously. Moments later, five alert noises echoed around the room. Draco jumped, then glared at the intrusive device as he retrieved it from his own pocket.

**I wouldn’t expect you to know what to look for.  
** I will return to the house later with John to  
conduct my own analysis. -SH 

“No,” Harry told him. “You won’t need to go back because there _isn’t_ anything to find.”

John shot a wary look across the room as his roommate began typing again. “Harry, you haven’t worked with him before. You don’t know what he can find-- he sees things no one else does. Maybe we should--”

“No,” Harry said again. “There’s nothing there because--”

Another round of phones going off.

**You don’t understand my process. It means nothing  
** for you to have gone to the crime scene in my place.  
John and I will search the house ourselves and then  
tell you what you’ve missed. -SH 

In two quick strides, Draco was across the room, snatching the mobile from Sherlock’s hands.

“You won’t find anything,” he said cooly, ignoring the almost-comical outrage from the other man, “because magic doesn’t leave a trace. Whoever took these children is from _our_ world, and whatever reason they have for taking them has something to do with magic.”

***

Fortunately, by the time DI Lestrade arrived an hour later (in his usual manner of barging into the sitting room without announcing himself), the gift of speech had been restored to the household. 

“Greg!” John exclaimed, spotting the harried detective over the top of a takeaway menu. 

“John,” he replied, nodding curtly before diverting his attention to Sherlock. “There’s been another kidnapping. Will you come?”

It was then that he noticed the four strangers in the room. “Hello, who are you?” 

“There’s no time for introductions, Lestrade! Tell me the details.” Sherlock stepped between Lestrade and couch, attempting to block the strangers from view. 

Lestrade sidestepped Sherlock and moved towards John and the three strangers crowded around him, seemingly frozen in the middle of a debate, each with a takeaway menu in hand. There was a fourth stranger, who – and Lestrade had to look back over his shoulder to be sure – had the same exasperated expression on his face as Sherlock. 

“Greg this is Harry, Hermoine, and Ron,” John pointed each one out with a jab of his Indian menu, “And the one doing the amazingly accurate impression of Sherlock is Draco. They’re, um...”

“We’re consultants,” Hermione cut in. “On loan from the Ministry.”

“From the government,” John corrected. 

“Consultants?” Lestrade laughed. “The Consulting Detective needs consultants?” 

“For the record, I do _not_ need any consultants, but Mycroft was rather insistent,” Sherlock explained, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Now. Lestrade. Tell me about the case.” 

“I think it would be better if we talked on the way. This is the first fresh crime scene we’ve got in this case.”

“A new crime scene? Perfect. Get us a cab! I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Lestrade nodded and headed back out of the flat. As soon as he left the room, Sherlock bounced up onto his chair and leapt over the back, grabbing his coat. 

“Brilliant! This could be our break, a fresh scene. We can finally get some proper evidence.”

He swept towards the door, caught up in his own thoughts, before he realized John wasn’t following him. He poked his head back into the sitting room. 

“John? Aren’t you coming?”

“Actually, I was thinking you could take Harry and Draco with you,” John suggested. He thought this was an innocent enough suggestion and was surprised with the amount of protests he heard in stereo around the room. 

“They don’t know my process!”  
“You want me to put up with both of them?!”  
“I can’t believe you want me to go out to another muggle home!”  
“You can’t leave Harry with two of them! He’ll go mental!”  
“I don’t even want to know your process!”  
“If I wanted incompetence around me, John, I would ask Donovan and Anderson.”  
“See, they’re having a go at each other already!”  
“Honestly, I can’t deal with both of them like this!”

Hermione and John looked at their arguing friends and then back at each other. John put his fingers to his lips and let out a loud whistle. The room fell silent. 

“Are you all done? Honestly, you’re like children.” Hermione glared at each of them in turn, reminding the wizards very much of Professor McGonagall. “Now, Harry and Draco, you need to go look at the new crime scene and see if there are traces of magic and see what you can find out about the child. No, Sherlock. This will not interfere with your ‘process.’” She made the appropriate air quotes. “You will all work together and you will all at least pretend to get along. I hardly think I need to remind you all why we are doing this, but it goes without saying that our main goal is not to stroke any of the already enormous egos in this room.”

Harry nodded and looked down at his feet, feeling oddly like he was back in school and Hermione had just told him off for copying her homework. 

“Very well,” Sherlock said. He gave Hermione a particularly withering look. “But you’ve been here all day. Isn’t it about time that _your_ people did something about all this?” 

“Sherlock.” John said in a warning voice. 

“No, he’s right,” the witch agreed, sounding as though she was loathe to admit it. “It’s about time we went in search of answers of a different kind. Harry, are you sure the kidnappings are linked to the magical world?”

Harry frowned. “I’m not sure of anything, I s’pose. It’s more of a feeling, but it’s a strong one.”

“Well,” Hermione said fondly, “your instincts have always been stronger than most. I’ve learned to trust them, anyway.”

“And me,” Ron added. Sherlock scoffed audibly.

“ _Instinct_?” he sneered. “We’re going off _instinct_ now? I don’t suppose anyone is going to be kind enough to let me know when they actually want to solve the case, are they?”

“Actually,” Draco replied, his tone light but sharp. “Potter’s instincts have been known to save hundreds of lives on a _bad_ day. And it appears as though you’re severely outnumbered. If you think anyone in this room is going to go against his instincts, you’ve rather a nasty surprise in store.”

The detective cast a glance at his flatmate, who shrugged apologetically. Before he could say another word, however, Sherlock had turned on his heel and disappeared down the stairs. Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist and dragged him after the trail of Sherlock’s coat. 

“Right,” Hermione said, reaching for her coat. “John, you’re with us then. I must warn you-- it might be a bit of a shock.” 

John blinked. “A shock? What might be a shock? What do you mean?”

Ron grinned, reaching into his own pocket for a small bag. Leading the way into the room opposite, he paused before the fireplace and removed a fistful of green, shimmering powder. “We’re going to the Ministry of Magic.”

“Sorry, the what? We’re going where?” John sputtered. “And what’re you doing with that stuff? I can call a cab, or–”

“No need,” said Hermione, smoothly extracting her own measure of the sand-like substance in the bag. “We’ll go by Floo Powder. Much faster way to go. All you have to do is throw a handful of powder into the fire, say your destination loudly and _clearly_ , and step into the flames.”

“You want me to what?” John asked, the colour slowly draining from his face. “You want me to willingly walk into a fireplace with a fire actually _in_ it?”

“It won’t hurt,” Ron laughed, a bit incredulous. “Look, I’ll go first and show you how it’s done. Nothing to worry about, mate.”

“But-- but-- I’m not _magical_!” John’s protests seemed to fall on deaf ears. “No, but seriously, Ron, how is this going to work? Hermione, how is this going to work for me?”

Hermione just shook her head. “John, it’s going to be fine, I promise. Just watch Ron and do as he does. You’ll be all right-- just enunciate. Try not to mumble or stutter-- we don’t want you ending up in the wrong place.” 

In disbelief, John watched as the redheaded wizard threw his handful of powder into the flames, which turned emerald and flared within the grate. Numbly, he heard Ron say clearly, “The Ministry of Magic,” and stoop slightly to walk into the fireplace. There was a gust of hot wind as the blaze swirled around him, and then he was gone. 

“Your turn, John.” Hermione nudged him gently forward. “Don’t be afraid. It’s quite fun, really. Just... be sure to keep your elbows to your sides and try not to breathe in too much ash.”

John accepted the green powder from Hermione, who had taken enough for both of them. He cleared his throat a few times, standing before his own fireplace for hour-long minutes. Taking a deep breath, he cast the powder into the grate, and, stammering only once, managed to say, “The M-ministry of Magic,” before stepping forward into the flames.


	5. In Which Rules Are Broken (and Anderson is Still an Idiot)

“It’s all right, mate,” Ron told John a few minutes later, a consoling hand on the doctor’s back as he dry-heaved over a bin in the corner of an impossibly large room. “It happens to everyone– the first Floo trip is always the worst. It’ll get easier, really.”

John wiped his face with the handkerchief Hermione had offered him moments earlier. “I should expect to be doing this a lot then, should I?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” she said, looking around. “Although, technically, we just broke quite a few rules bringing you in this way. We’re supposed to use the visitors’ entrance when we bring guests, and of course, we’re not meant to bring anyone who’s non-magical in. We’re probably going to get into a lot of trouble for this.” She wrung her hands nervously, and Ron just shook his head fondly. 

“‘Mione’s a big fan of rules,” he stage-whispered to John. “Always has been. Between you and me, though, I secretly think she likes breaking them from time to time.”

John groaned in response, wishing desperately for a glass of water. He wiped his face again and stood up at last, ready to take in his surroundings.

At least, he had thought that he was ready.

“Is that a centaur?” he asked, staring at the statue in the center of the fountain. “And--what are those things?”

Hermione moved closer to him, allowing her to reply in a hushed tone. “A House-Elf and a goblin.” She pointed discreetly, clearly trying to draw as little attention to their trio as possible. “It’s the Fountain of Magical Brethren. It used to look a bit different before the war, but then it was destroyed when Voldemort dueled with Dumbledore. They’ve rebuilt it since then, but thankfully they gave each figure its own plinth. The wizard in the center there used to be higher than everyone else-- they were all looking up at him adoringly. It was an embarrassment, really. I was new when they started the plans to rebuild it, and I happened to be able to talk to some people about it. It’s still not perfect, of course, but--”

She kept talking, but John wasn’t hearing a word. “What’s a House-Elf? Who’re Voldemort and Dumbledore? You’re telling me that goblins are real?”

A tall, broad-shouldered man in robes, who had been walking by at exactly that moment stopped in his tracks. “Did you just ask who Voldemort was?” His voice was low and heavy, and though John could sense that it had the tendency of seeming reassuring, it was currently more tense and suspicious than he would have liked. Hermione let out an alarmed squeak, turning to face the new participant in their conversation. 

“Oh, Kingsley!” Her entire demeanor sagged with relief, but within a split-second, she had stiffened again, her face going red. “I mean, Minister! Good to see you!”

Kingsley chuckled softly. “And you, Mrs. and Mr. Weasley. But your friend here isn’t a face I recognize, and he doesn’t seem to be wearing a visitor’s badge, so I feel slightly at a disadvantage where introductions are concerned.”

Ron grinned, looking far more comfortable than John thought the situation warranted. “Kingsley, this is Dr. John Watson. John, this is Kingsley Shacklebolt-- the Minister of Magic.”

“That’s like your Prime Minister,” Hermione hissed in his ear, but John didn’t need any hints to realize that he was meeting an important man. (Albeit a man who wore a gold hoop earring in one ear, but a very important man nonetheless.) He offered his hand, and the Minister of Magic shook it firmly. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” the Minister said, a bit more warmly. “I don’t meet many doctors these days. Mostly Healers.” At this, he looked at Ron and Hermione. “Not to be rude, Weasleys, but I certainly hope there’s an explanation for this.” As Ron cleared his throat nervously and Hermione stammered, Kingsley turned back to the doctor in front of him. “I’d like it if you and your hosts would join me in my office shortly. Give me a few minutes to see if I can’t put some tea together.” 

As Shacklebolt strode away, Hermione buried her face in her hands and moaned something that sounded like, “We are in so much trouble.” Ron patted her back soothingly, but his face looked rather more white than it had a few moments before.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” John said lightly, feeling ridiculous even as he said it. “I mean, what can he really do? Wipe my memory or something? That only happens in science fiction films, right?”

***

Lestrade was holding a soggy cup of lukewarm coffee as he cursed and glared at his resolutely silent mobile. He had sent Sherlock ten messages, each with increasing frequency, and he still hadn’t received a single response. It was so unlike the normal behavior of the Consulting Detective, who had been known to send Lestrade messages unrelated to cases due to boredom (most notably a string of texts explaining the art of Bonsai, which Lestrade supposed would have been delivered to John in speech form, had the good doctor been present at their flat), that Lestrade began to worry that something had happened. 

He was just about to send John a worried text message when a cab pulled up and Sherlock jumped out before the car had fully stopped. A moment later, two other men spilled out of the back seat, rushing forward to catch up with Sherlock as he stopped in front of Lestrade. 

“Is this the place?” Sherlock asked, cutting any pleasantries off at the pass. 

“Sherlock, what is this?” Lestrade asked gesturing at Harry and Draco, “I make exceptions for you and John, but I can’t just let anyone into an active crime scene.”

“Didn’t we go over this already? Your inability to remember details is excruciatingly tedious. Harry. Draco. Experts. On loan from Mycroft. Blah blah blah. Is there anything else or can we actually look at the crime scene now?”

Draco nodded, agreeing with Sherlock’s desire to hurry the proceedings along, while Harry looked awkward and mouthed a “sorry” to Lestrade. 

“Very well,” Lestrade sighed. “Follow me.”

Lestrade lead the trio up a brick path in a small but well tended garden, leading to an equally small, but well loved cottage. 

“This is the home of Mr. and Mrs. Adelson. They’re a young couple, married straight out of secondary school. She works at a shop in town, and he’s in shipping of some sort. Stephanie, their daughter, is just three years old and was last seen here with her mom, Lucy. That was at approximately 8 this morning. Sam got up for work, checked in on his daughter and left. Lucy was still just getting up herself, and it was about an hour later that she realized it was odd to not have heard anything from the little girl. When she went to check the nursery, Stephanie was gone.” 

By the time Lestrade had concluded, they were all inside the small sitting room. Harry and Draco were following the DI’s story, but Sherlock had already wandered off and was inspecting the contents of the home. All three of them watched as Sherlock picked up a few picture frames, studied the dust that had gathered underneath them on the side table, then shook his head and moved into the kitchenette. 

“Are you two going to start spouting off deductions based on the colour of the curtains as well?” Lestrade asked, already resigned to the fact that there may be more than one Holmesesque character in his presence. 

“Our methods are quite different, Detective Inspector,” Harry said.

“Yeah, there’s a lot less touching of things,” Draco drawled, as Sherlock came back into the room, holding a container of what appeared to be baby food and sniffing it experimentally. 

“Well, that’s a relief. I’ll leave you gentlemen to it, then. Let me know if you need anything.”

As Lestrade strode off to talk with the uniformed officers, Draco pulled Harry towards the front door and back out into the garden. 

“If I have to be in one more Muggle flat today, I swear to Merlin,” Draco grumbled, swiping at his suit as if it were contaminated. 

“I hope we don’t have to go into any others as well, but that’s because I hope there aren’t any more kidnappings. Not because I think I’ll contract some sort of disease,” Harry snarled. “So, get over it, Draco, and let’s go back in.”

“Actually, Potter, I brought us out here for a reason. If someone is using magic to get into the homes, and we aren’t seeing any trace inside, we should look for signs of jinxes or charms on the outside.”

“That’s actually brilliant,” Harry admitted.  
“Yeah, well, don’t act so impressed,” said Draco rolling his eyes, but he had a slight pink tinge to his usually pale cheeks. 

They decided to split up: Harry circling the house clockwise, and Draco circling anti-clockwise. Harry was trying his damnedest to remember every revealing spell and charm he’d ever used. It struck him, as it often did in situations like this, that he had been an Auror for so long now, yet it sometimes felt as though his abilities had not advanced much since his Hogwarts days. Properly advanced magic, like much of what Dumbledore had done to reveal traces of Voldemort’s spells all those years ago in the cave, still seemed out of his grasp.

By the time Harry had investigated the side yard, he was getting frustrated. No matter which spells he tried, he could find no trace of magic aside from his own. He pushed open the side gate to the back garden and found Draco already there, crouched over a patch in the hedgerow on the opposite side. 

“Did you find something?” Harry asked, hurrying over. 

“Look at this,” Draco said, waving Harry down to his side. “What do you reckon?”

Harry crouched down and leaned over to look at the spot indicated by his partner and gasped. There appeared to be a nearly invisible wavering in the air, similar to the look of heat rising off of the road in the middle of summer. 

“What is it?” Harry asked. “How did you find it?”

“It’s a trace, though a very faint trace, of magic,” Draco said quietly. “And I found it using a spell I haven’t used in years. One I never thought I’d use again. One I had tried to forget.”

“Oh. It’s from–” Harry started, but Draco cut him off. 

“Yes, from then. We needed to know if anyone had infiltrated our ranks, had found out where The Dark, I mean, Voldemort was hiding. And well, I don’t know if it’s dark magic or not, strictly speaking, but...”

“But if you can use it to help us find these kids,” Harry finished for him, resting a comforting hand on his partner’s shoulder, “then none of that other stuff matters, ok?”

Draco gave Harry a long, searching look, then finally nodded. 

“So, what does this mean?” Harry asked, standing up and offering a hand to Draco. 

Draco accepted the hand up, and was about to answer when the back door was flung open and a longer haired man in a blue crime scene suit was approaching them, Sherlock on his heels. 

“What are you two doing back here?” he barked. “You’re disturbing our investigation. Did you fancy to see what the police were up to? Want to get ahead of the gossip, did we? You!” Ignoring Sherlock’s pointed glare, he turned back to an officer coming out of the house. “How could you let them back here? This is an active crime scene! It’s bad enough to have The Freak around, but these two! What are they, reporters?”

“Dear Merlin,” Draco mumbled under his breath, then loudly asked: “Will you shut up? Do you hear the rubbish coming out of your mouth? I think I’m actually stupider for having come in contact with you.”

Sherlock was momentarily stunned silent, until he heard Lestrade cough in an attempt to cover up his laughter, and then a genuine smile spread across his face as he looked over to the blonde wizard. 

“Detective Inspector –” Anderson started.

“Come off it, Anderson, you know he’s right,” Sherlock said, and pushed him aside to join Harry and Draco at the hedge. 

“We’ve got something,” Harry said ushering Sherlock into a huddle with himself and Draco, their backs to the onlooking officers and the spluttering Anderson.

“Delphiniums? How common.” 

“Quite,” Draco agreed. “But aside from that, I’ve found traces of magic. It’s faint, but there.”

Sherlock studied Draco for a long moment.

“Back at Baker Street you said that magic doesn’t leave a trace.”

“Yes, that’s normally true,” Draco answered calmly, “but some kinds do, if you know how to look for it.”

“What what kind would that be?” Sherlock asked.

Draco bowed his head slightly, and Harry put his hand lightly on his partner's arm. Sherlock felt oddly out of his depth – not with witnessing the comforting hand of a colleague, he had John after all – but with the weight and history that both of these men seemed to possess. He knew that he and John had seen a lot in their lives, but whatever these two had seen had left scars, had left them exhausted, and had not really left them at all. 

Draco finally raised his head and looked Sherlock in the eye. “Dark magic.”


	6. In Which There Are Wizarding History Lessons

There was something about large offices that never failed to make John feel like a schoolboy again. It might have been the expansive desks or uncomfortable chairs that seemed to come standard in these types of settings. It also could have been linked to the fact that whenever John was in a large office, he was also likely to be staring into the face of a very serious and intimidating man who wanted to scold him for something or another. Granted, he’d never been in a situation _quite_ like this one before– offices didn’t usually have small paper airplanes swooping in and out every few minutes, or quills that were hastily scratching across thick pieces of parchment of their own accord. The look he, Ron, and Hermione were getting from the Minister of Magic, however; that was familiar territory. 

“So,” the man called Kingsley Shacklebolt said, sounding a little amused. “Care to tell me why the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy wasn’t worth upholding today? And are there any other rules you’ve broken that I should know about, or do they all mostly fall under that heading?”

Hermione, whom even John could deduce was not used to getting in trouble with authority, looked like she was about to either cry or be sick. “Minister, we’re so sorry that we didn’t contact you before coming here to bring you up to date on the situation. I should have sent a message ahead-- I should have tried to Floo you-- I--”

“Hermione,” Kingsley interrupted, chuckling softly. “It’s all right. I trust you. If you of all people have bent the rules a bit, I’m going to assume you have a good reason. I’m just waiting to hear what it is.”

Ron jerked his thumb at John. “He and his partner were recruited to help Harry and Malfoy look into all these Muggle kidnappings.”

The Minister looked bemused. “I don’t recall recruiting anyone.”

“Percy did it,” Ron explained. “His contact in the Muggle government is John’s partner’s brother.”

John shifted in his seat. It was odd enough that the other three were carrying on as though he wasn’t there, but the word ‘partner’ was starting to sound somehow different than it had before. 

Kingsley said nothing for a moment, looking torn between a stern disappointment and a type of concerned interest. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, reminding John strongly of his flatmate. 

“If _Percy Weasley_ was worried enough to break Wizarding law and Ministry protocol without consulting me, then the situation must be very dire indeed,” the Minister said. “So what I now suggest is that the three of you bring me up to speed as quickly and thoroughly as you can.”

Hermione nodded, and John watched the tension in her body language evaporate. Her husband reached over and touched her hand lightly, bringing a soft smile of confidence to her lips.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the many Muggle kidnappings that have been occurring throughout the country,” she began, and Kingsley nodded. “Mycroft Holmes reached out to Percy when the lack of physical evidence became a pattern. He wondered whether magic might be involved, so he asked Percy to bring in consultants from our world.”

“And do you believe that his instincts were correct?” Kingsley asked.

Ron folded his arms across his chest. “Harry met with one of the families. It was... well, it was his cousin, Dudley. Guess it hit too close to home to be a coincidence.”

“Well, and that Draco Malfoy agreed,” John added. All three wizards turned to him, and he cleared his throat. “That is, he said that it had to be linked to magic because magic doesn’t leave traces, right? And none of these kidnappings has had a bit of physical evidence left behind. They’re with my-- they’re with Sherlock at a fresh crime scene right now.” Instinctively, his hand went into his pocket and withdrew his suspiciously silent mobile. “Haven’t heard back, but I’m sure we will soon.”

Kingsley smiled ruefully. “I expect you will, once you’re out of here.”

When John looked confused, Hermione jumped in. “You can’t get reception in here. Generally speaking, Muggle technology doesn’t work in magical dwellings and buildings like this one.”

John frowned as he pocketed the mobile again. He didn’t like the idea of not being able to reach Sherlock if needed-- or vice versa, for that matter. Knowing that their standard text-based communication was impossible made his skin itch as his body was possessed by a sudden tension. 

“And I assume Potter called you two in as back-up,” said Kingsley, who was apparently still talking. John forced himself to return his attention to the matters directly at hand. “Of course, any Ministry resources you need to continue your investigation are yours, within reason. No calling in the entire Auror task force, Ron-- we will want to keep this on a low profile for as long as we can. Do you have any concrete leads yet?”

Ron shook his head. “Not yet, but I’ll bet Harry will have something to go on soon. I think finding out his cousin was involved got in his head a bit. Dunno why, since I’ve only ever known Dudley Dursley to be a great, big--”

“Ron!” Hermione said sharply. “You can’t possibly think that matters now, when his only child has been kidnapped.” Her husband’s ears went red and he fell silent. “In any case, Minister, we’re just getting started, so we haven’t really got any strong leads. But if you have any suggestions on what we might look into--”

A loud, rapid knock on the door interrupted her, and whoever was on the other side clearly didn’t think it was necessary to wait for an answer. 

“Knock-knock! I hope I’m not late, Minister,” said a simpering voice as the door swung open. John turned in his chair in time to watch as a petite, pug-faced, dark-haired woman sauntered into the room. The broad smile on her face vanished as she caught sight of Ron and Hermione. “Am I...interrupting something?”

“Hello, Pansy,” Hermione said stiffly. The other woman ignored this, focusing instead on Kingsley.

“I’m sorry, but I was _sure_ we had an appointment this afternoon, Minister.”

“Miss Parkinson,” Kingsley said, having the decency to sound truly apologetic. “I’m sorry. We did have a meeting, but I am sure you’ll understand that something rather important has suddenly come up. Is there any chance we could reschedule?”

“But Minister,” Pansy huffed, “I’m to meet with the rest of the Department for Wizarding Education next hour. I’ve been promising them all week that I was meeting with you to discuss the Protection of Wizarding Secrecy Act. What will I tell them? Couldn’t _this_ \--” and here she vaguely gestured toward Hermione with her free hand, “--wait a _few_ moments while you go over the materials I’ve prepared for you?”

John glanced back at Hermione. She was sitting ramrod-straight in her chair and her cheeks had gone very pink. If the army doctor had thought her to be furious during her argument with Sherlock, it was nothing to how she looked now. Had it not been for Ron’s hand on her knee, John might have expected some kind of argumentative explosion. He looked at Kingsley. Surely, the Minister of Magic was not accustomed to this kind of behaviour from his subordinates. Though he hadn’t known him for more than twenty minutes, Kingsley Shacklebolt reminded John strongly of his Major General from his days with the Fusiliers: the perfect balance of dignity, strength, and an underlying human decency that spoke volumes of the man’s character. He wasn’t sure who this Pansy Parkinson was, but he couldn’t imagine that she was in a position to be making demands.

She didn’t seem to recognise this herself-- or worse, she didn’t care. “Well?” she asked, feigning sweetness. “I promise it won’t take but a few minutes of your time, Minister, really.”

“Excuse me,” John began, feeling a bit indignant, “but this _is_ actually kind of important––”

“It’s fine, John,” said Ron, suddenly rising to his feet. His hand was tightly closed around Hermione’s, who looked as though she might boil over at any second. She also stood, trembling with the exertion of keeping her composure. “Honestly, Kings-- Minister. It’s all right. You’re up to date now, and we’ll let you know when we know more, all right?”

At Kingsley’s nod, Ron practically dragged Hermione out of the office, and John leapt up to follow them.

“Nice to have met you!” he called over his shoulder as he rushed out the door. 

***

“Who the bloody hell was that?” he asked five minutes later. “Bit rude, wasn’t she?”

“HA!” Hermione barked, clenching and unclenching her fists. The three of them now stood outside a bright red phone box, which John had quickly been introduced to as the proper visitors’ entrance. 

“Rude doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it!” she continued loudly. 

Ron sighed. He was keeping a safe distance from the dark cloud over his wife’s head, but John could tell that this hadn’t been a half-hard lesson to learn. 

“Pansy Parkinson’s a girl we were at Hogwarts with,” Ron explained. “She was in Slytherin--sorry, one of the four Houses we can be Sorted into. The worst one, if you ask anyone who knows. Durin’ the War, well both Wars, really, a lot of them ended up on You-Know-Who-- sorry, Voldemort’s-- side. An’ Pansy was especially bad, even before she tried to get everyone to turn Harry in to the Death Eaters. She was... er, she was especially awful to Hermione back at school.”

“She _tortured_ me,” Hermione hissed. “Just because I’m different. Because I’m a _Mudblood_. Because I was clever in classes. I can’t even understand why someone who didn’t even care about Hogwarts ended up in the Department of Wizarding Education. And that POWS she’s trying to push through! It’s disgusting, it really is. Really shows her true colours.”

John blinked. “Right. I don’t understand half of what either of you just said. What’s a Slytherin?”

To his surprise, Ron roared with laughter. Even Hermione managed to crack a smile. 

“C’mon,” the ginger-haired man said, clapping John on the back. “Let’s talk about all this over some lunch. I’m starving!”

***  
Harry had never felt more like Ron in his life.

He, Draco, and Sherlock had left the crime scene, with Sherlock looking between the two wizards as if everything he had known and understood in the world was crashing down around him. At first Harry thought Sherlock was talking to himself, as he listened to the other man ramble on about physics and the nature of particles, but as his inflection rose at the end of a long statement, Harry realized Sherlock was asking Draco and himself questions. Instead of acknowledging any of this, Harry had steadfastly ignored both of his companions, and marched straight into a café that he had spotted across the road from the house, and threw himself into a booth towards the back, not caring at the moment if his companions were following. With his meager breakfast hours gone, and after running all over London already, Harry was not answering a single question before tucking into a solid lunch. 

Draco and Sherlock watched in annoyance as Harry attacked his curry chips. “You guys could have gotten something, too,” Harry said, moving on to his sandwich. 

“I don’t eat while I’m on a case,” Sherlock answered, pushing an untouched black coffee further away from him. “It slows me down.”

“You should know by now, Potter, that this place is not at all up to my standards,” Draco drawled, dropping two tiny sugar cubes into his overly complicated coffee order. “I’ll stick to this.” 

“Actually, this place is far superior than most of its counterparts in this part of town, and they would pass all health and safety codes with flying colours,” Sherlock said, looking around the small café. 

“How could you possibly...” Harry started to ask around a bite of his sandwich. 

“It’s not the state of the place, though it is not my style at all,” Draco said, cutting Harry off. “It’s the food itself. I stick to a very strict diet and curry chips is not on that diet.”

“Your loss,” Harry said, stuffing more chips into his mouth.

“Yes, well, now that we have our dietary preferences out of the way, we have other things to discuss,” Sherlock looked down at his hands for a moment, as if steeling himself to do something outside of his comfort level. “I’ve very rarely said this before – and, oh what John would give to be here to hear me say it now – but I don’t understand what I saw back at the crime scene. I think I am at a disadvantage here, and I think you need to get me up to speed, and fast.” 

Draco could tell that it pained Sherlock to admit this, and based on their limited interactions today, he understood that this was as man who was always the best, always the most clever, and always the first to solve a puzzle. While Draco couldn’t claim to ever be the most clever, he certainly knew what it felt like to be out of his depth, and he felt for the man sitting across from him. 

Draco watched as Harry pushed away his remaining chips, and wiped his hands on his napkin. He looked up and caught Draco’s eye, and an unspoken “where do we even begin” passed between them. 

“I’m not sure how to start,” Harry admitted, breaking his gaze from Draco and looking across to Sherlock. “You know there is magic in the world, and I know that I didn’t pay nearly enough attention in History of Magic to tell you much more than there’ve been a hell of a lot of Goblin rebellions over the years.” Sherlock arched his eyebrows at him, but said nothing. “So, I guess it’s best to stick with current affairs.

“Years ago, there was a war in our world, kind of led by this Dark wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort. To make a very long story short, he believed that you couldn’t be a proper witch or wizard if you weren’t ‘pureblood.’” Harry made air-quotes, and glanced at Draco out of the corner of his eye. “That is to say, if your family line wasn’t magical through and through. He wasn’t even Pureblood himself, and neither were most of his followers– people called Death Eaters– because the truth is that the Wizarding World would die out pretty quickly if everyone had to be Pureblood. But a lot of people died. Voldemort, he liked to kill, and he liked power.”

“The reason that Weasley your brother is friends with was so surprised that you hadn’t heard of my dear partner here, is that he’s rather stupidly famous in our world,” Draco drawled in his familiar taunting voice.

“Draco,” Harry mumbled, giving him a pointed look.

“Why are you famous? When was this war?” Sherlock asked. 

Harry sighed. “I’m famous because my parents died to save me from Lord Voldemort when I was a baby. And I’m famous because I grew up and I killed him. Fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen years? You were a child then!”

“I was seventeen.”

Sherlock let that sink in for a moment. As smart and as advanced as he was, at seventeen he was still locked up in a lab during the day and drugged out of his mind at night. John would have also already been ready for service at that age, maybe deciding between medical school and the army? Sherlock made a mental note to ask John – how could he not know a detail like that? He hated feeling left out of something that had happened so long ago; it was irrational and it interfered with the issue at hand. And yet, he could see the effect this war had had on the two men across from him. It was almost tangible now that he knew. 

“You said that you could see some Dark Magic at the crime scene. Was it the same kind of Dark Magic that Voldemort used?” Sherlock asked Draco, breaking the momentary silence that had fallen at their table. 

Draco stiffened, but Harry put his hand on his partner’s arm, the same gesture that Sherlock had witnessed in the back garden earlier. Sherlock realized that there was something about these events that made Draco uncomfortable.

“He was one of the most powerful wizards of all time,” Draco said carefully. “What I felt today was not that strong, no. But it was Dark Magic, that I can be sure of.”

“Is that your specialty as, what was it, an Auror did he call you? Do you specialize in finding Dark Magic? Do they train you to find traces like this?” Sherlock continued his questioning.

“No.”

“Then how do you know it was Dark Magic? If you’re not trained to find it how can you...oh... Oh!” Sherlock skidded to a halt as the most obvious answer occurred to him. He leaned forward, across the table and studied Draco intently. “You know it some other way, don’t you? You’re familiar with it.”

To both Sherlock and Draco’s surprise, it was Harry who spoke, teeth gritted and fists clenched on the table. “Whatever you are implying, Sherlock, it’s not like that. I trust Draco with my life, on or off a case.”

“Harry,” Draco warned. 

“So, then this is experience from the war?” Sherlock asked, knowing full well that John had skills from his time in Afghanistan that weren’t exactly listed on the recruitment pamphlet. “Did you work together then? Is that why you are still partners?” 

“Oh, um.” Harry said, face flushing in embarrassment at his outburst. “No, actually. We hated each other at school.”

“School?”

“Yes, well... We were, as you pointed out, just kids really. We spent the years leading up to the war in school together. We were in rival Houses,” Harry explained, and Sherlock nodded in understanding. “And then...”

“Let’s just say I hated Harry, and well, so did my family.” Draco laughed a bit at this, and Harry gave him a weak smile. “My father and my aunt were a big supporters of Voldemort, and so was I by extension. I didn’t know much about what he was really doing, and I was young and, Merlin, I hated Harry so much that it all seemed worth it. I saw and did a lot of things that I wish I hadn’t back then.” 

There was a heavy silence at the table following Draco’s confession. 

“We also played the same positions on our House Quidditch teams,” Harry supplied unhelpfully. 

Sherlock looked at Harry in confusion for a moment before shaking his head and continuing with his questioning, “You were on opposite sides of the war? You hated each other and now this. How long have you been partners?”

“Ten years,” Draco said with a smile. 

“How on earth did that happen? How can you work together and trust each other after something like that?”

“He saved my life,” Harry and Draco both said at the same time. 

And they said it simply, not chorused as if this question had been put to them a thousand times. It was just the facts, Sherlock realized. 

“And you?” Draco asked, turning the tables on his inquisitor. “How is it that a man as secretive and selective as yourself trusts anyone at all. Why do you trust John?”

Sherlock grinned and said simply, “He saved my life.”

Harry and Draco smiled at each other, and then at Sherlock, and Sherlock was surprised to find himself so relieved that they understood. There were certain things that happen between people that formed a bond beyond anything else, something that even he couldn’t rationalize away. And for once he didn’t have to explain what was there between himself and John; they just understood. 

“It is nice to not have to explain in more detail,” Harry said with a smile. “Most people, especially people we knew when we were younger, didn’t understand how we could work together. Some still don’t, I suppose.”

“No, I understand,” Sherlock said seriously. “Your relationship reminds me of my relationship with John.” 

Harry and Draco exchanged a look. 

“Oh, no. It’s not quite like that,” Draco objected. “We’re just partners.”

“Right,” Sherlock agreed. “Partners. That’s what I mean.”

“Uh. Just partners. Not _partners_ partners,” Harry tried to clarify. 

Sherlock’s phone buzzed next to his untouched coffee on the table displaying a text from John; he smiled as he thumbed open the text with one hand and waving away Harry and Draco’s continued objections with the other. He quickly tapped out a response then slid off of the bench, standing up and slinging his scarf around his neck with a flourish. 

“Let’s go. John and the others are back at Baker Street, if you’ve finished,” Sherlock said, inclining his head towards the remains of Harry’s lunch.

Harry reached out to grab a few more chips, but Draco swatted his hand away and dragged his partner out of the booth. 

“Come along, Potter. You’ve had enough. We wouldn’t want you losing that seeker’s build,” Draco added sarcastically. 

“Git,” Harry mumbled, as he grabbed one last chip, shoving it into his mouth as he followed the other two men out of the cafe to where Sherlock was already hailing them a cab back to Baker Street.


	7. In Which John Pulls Rank and Hermione Finds a Break

When Lestrade appeared in the door of 221B late the next morning, John felt his stomach roil and clench. He always liked Greg because he sensed a sort of kinship with the detective inspector-- a sort of mutual respect based on the stoicism needed to survive their chosen lifestyles. For John, there was something inherently trustworthy about a man who can set his jaw against the horrors of atrocity while setting his mind to solving it. That morning, however, there was a panicked edge around Lestrade’s eyes that John had never seen, and that scared him.

“What is it?” he asked, rising to his feet with his cup and saucer still in his hands.

“Two more kidnappings,” Lestrade said. Sherlock laid down the paper and looked up at the man, his face expressionless. 

“They’re escalating then?”

Lestrade nodded. “When this all started, we’d see maybe one kidnapping every few months. This is three in two days.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly weary. “Sherlock, we’ve-- _you’ve_ got to solve this thing. People are getting scared.”

“Where?” 

“One in Canonbury and the other in Clapham,” Lestrade said, handing over two addressed. “I took the liberty of calling your-- er, the other team-- on my way over. The three of them are on their way to Clapham now, so I thought--” 

John had already begun shrugging on his coat, and Sherlock made for his room, shedding his dressing gown in a heap on the chair. Lestrade shifted anxiously on his heels until his mobile rang, and he’d excused himself to wait for the consulting detectives outside. 

Sherlock reemerged from his room, buttoning his suit jacket. He caught John’s eye and held it.

“He didn’t just mean that ‘people’ are getting scared,” John said quietly, as Sherlock fussed with the cuffs of his shirt.

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “I’ve never seen him like this. He’s smoking again.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on. He’s shaking like a leaf, his throat was entirely raw, and he may as well have brought a cloud with him when he came in. The man reeked of menthol.”

Sure enough, as the two men quit the flat, the Detective Inspector quickly flicked aside the better half of a cigarette and had the decency to look abashed.

“Well that was a waste,” Sherlock frowned, as the still-burning cigarette rolled into the gutter. Lestrade ignored him. 

“Drove myself today,” he said, nodding towards a silver sedan on the curb. “Knew I’d need to be in about ten different places at once today, and this seemed easiest.”

“That, and you can’t smoke in a squad car,” Sherlock replied peevishly. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John growled, and his flatmate rolled his eyes.

“Saves us the trouble of getting a cab, I suppose. I’ll take the front seat, John, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lestrade sighed, shaking his head at John while Sherlock gracefully folded himself into the front seat of the car. “I know that’s as good an apology as anyone ever gets from him.”

When they arrived at the large townhome in Canonbury, most of Lestrade’s team had dissipated-- off to Clapham, maybe, or too aware that their presence at these crime scenes wasn’t worth the price of petrol, John thought. The mother and father sat on either side of the front stairs. The woman held a cup of tea with both hands and stared into it, absently. John made his way to her first, as Sherlock and Lestrade approached her husband. 

“Mrs Beeman?” he asked tentatively. When he received no immediate response, he reached out slowly and took the mug from her hands as gently as he could manage. The movement was enough to send a bit of the tea splashing down the sides and over John’s own hand-- still full then, and ice cold to boot. Setting down the tea, John gently took her hand and slid two fingers down her wrist to find a pulse. 

“Mrs Beeman?” he repeated as he worked, “I’m Dr John Watson. I’m here with the Yard to ask about your daughter, Genevieve.”

At the sound of her daughter’s name, the woman turned her head and blinked owlishly at John. “Genevieve?” 

“That’s right,” John said, relieved to find a weak but steady pulse. “We wanted to ask you some questions, but I think perhaps you’d better have a rest just now.” 

“Did you say you were a doctor?” the woman asked, as though she hadn’t heard him. Her chilled, clammy hand suddenly seized upon John’s. “Are you from Great Ormond?”

John shook his head, ready to explain that he wasn’t a paediatrician, but she clutched at him, making real eye contact for the first time. 

“Have the results from Gen’s tests come in yet? The EEG? The MRIs?”

“Er,” said John, his mind racing. “I’m actually from Evelina, but Ormond have brought me in on your daughter’s case. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you decided to bring her in for testing? Her charts aren’t as clear about that as I’d like.”

He hated himself for lying to the poor woman-- though Sherlock would certainly be proud that his shamming skills were rubbing off on his friend-- but he wanted to encourage the responsiveness that had only seemed triggered by the thought of her daughter’s medical results. 

“Lots of little things,” she replied, still sounding a bit dazed. “Just weird things that kept happening round her. We got her hair cut a month ago, which she hated, and the next day it looked like no one had touched it. Toys she didn’t fancy would suddenly go missing; really missing, I mean. Vanished into thin air, like. Or one night, we sent her to bed early because she was acting up, and the next morning, all of her furniture was somehow upside down. And then...” 

Mrs Beeman hesitated. “I know I sound mad. This whole thing has got Cameron and I feeling like we’re absolutely barking, you know? That’s why we brought Gen in for tests-- we didn’t know what else to do.”

“What happened?” 

“She...she fell. Down the stairs. Only she didn’t really fall-- I keep telling myself I was just seeing things; it was the shock of the moment and we should just be glad she wasn’t hurt, but-- but she didn’t really _fall_ , Doctor. I’m sure of it. She was at the top of the stairs coming down... she lost her footing... and I just remember feeling like time was sort of slowing down somehow, even though I was running toward her, and she just sort of... _floated_ down into my arms.”

When John failed to respond, the woman let out a small, choked sob. “I know I sound mad, I _know_ I do, but please. We love our daughter, Doctor Watson. We just want to take care of her if there’s something wrong. We just want her to come home.”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” John said softly. “It’s actually a bit mad that I don’t, but I believe you. And we are going to do everything we can to find Genevieve. That’s a promise. But right now, I think it’s best if we get you inside for a bit of a lie-down, all right?”

Carefully, he helped the mother to her feet and steered her into the house. After she had passed through the front door, John paused to turn to Lestrade and Sherlock.

“Greg, who was in charge here before we arrived?”

“Er-- Anderson, I think. Now don’t look like that, Sherlock, he was the senior agent on the scene!”

John’s jaw was set and the anger in his eyes belied the calm in his voice. “Well, you tell him from me: if he ever ignores shock symptoms in a victim again, I’ll kill him myself.”

And without another word, he executed a sharp about-face and disappeared into the house.

“What was that?” Lestrade asked. “I’ve never seen John so assertive before.” 

Sherlock watched as his flatmate retreated into the house, noting the hard line in his shoulders and how he seemed to radiate authority. He thought back to John pulling rank at Baskerville and smiled to himself. 

“I have.”

And with that, he followed John back into the house.  
\---

“I just don’t think we should take the lead on this,” Harry insisted as they walked from their Apparation spot to the house of the day’s second kidnapping victim. They had been having this argument since that Harry and Draco had received calls from Lestrade, much to Draco’s annoyment at the method of communication, and owled Ron and Hermione to meet them.

“She isn’t even an Auror,” Draco argued, glaring at Harry and pointing to Hermione over his shoulder. 

“I work directly with the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, so I think I know a thing or two about magical crime,” Hermione shot back. 

“And he,” Draco continued without acknowledging Hermione’s comments, pointing at Ron this time. “He works for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. So, unless a Quaffle has been kidnapping these children, he’s not even useful!” 

Ron and Hermione gave Draco matching glares. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh don’t look at me like that, we were all thinking it.”

Harry decided to intervene before Hermione had the chance to replicate the punch she delivered to Draco back when they were thirteen. 

“You and I need to focus on the crime scene,” Harry reminded his partner. “You’re the only one that can detect the traces of this magical signature. And Hermione fits in best with the Muggles, so she’ll be able to get the best statements from them.”

Draco looked like he had plenty more to say on the subject, but all further argument was cut off as they arrived at the crime scene.

“Ok, so Hermione and I will go in –” Ron began, but was cut off with a resounding “NO!” from everyone else. 

“Um, Ron, it’s probably best if you stay with Harry and Draco on this one,” Hermione said kindly, patting her husband’s arm. “It’s just that last time you were in a Muggle house, you tried to talk to the family portrait.”

“That was an honest mistake,” Ron explained.

“What about incident with the refrigerator light?” Harry asked and Ron’s face reddened. 

“It’s reasonable to expect that there is some sort of miniature House Elf that holds a torch whenever you open the door,” Ron insisted.

“Honestly, Weasley,” Draco laughed. “You’ve been married to Granger long enough that some of that Muggleborn information should have made its way to you somehow. Even I know how a fridge-thingie works.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll stay out of the way,” Ron said dejectedly. 

“Great!” Hermione leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed Ron. “Stay out of trouble and I’ll come find you when I’m done with the interview.”

The three men watched as Hermione flashed her Mycroft-issued badge at the officer by the door and disappeared into the house.

“I’m going to start on the outside of the house,” Draco announced. “Try to stay out of my way, Weasley.” 

Harry rolled his eyes at his partner. “Don’t worry, he’ll stay with me and well out of your way.”

“Great,” Draco sneered and moved towards the side garden. 

“You don’t really think I’m useless, right?” Ron asked. “I mean, there is a lot of important international cooperation involved in Magical Games and Sports. Take the South American wizards. Crazy when it comes to standardization of uniforms, the South Americans are. You should have heard Elias Villanueva on the subject of–”

“No, I don’t think you’re useless, Ron,” Harry interjected. “But if you don’t stop banging on about your job....” He sighed. “Can you just let me know if you see anything that looks odd or out of place? Something that shouldn’t be at a Muggle house?”

“Fine,” Ron agreed and followed Harry towards the garden gate. “But tell me something. Is this what it’s always like, working with Malfoy?” 

“What do you mean?”

They were making their way around the side of the house, looking for any signs of tampering, magic or otherwise. Harry was working with every revealing spell that he knew, and was, once again, coming up with nothing. He wished he had time to talk to talk to Draco about his findings and the spell that he was using, but he knew it was going to be a hard conversation and not one that should be entered lightly. Talking about Draco’s history with the Death Eaters was always a sensitive subject, which Harry always suspected had to do more with Draco’s relationship with his parents rather than his previous views on the Dark Arts. 

“He’s still a bit of a prat, isn’t he? Complaining about Hermione questioning the witness and stomping off like that,” Ron explained. “You’ve always said he was a good partner, but are you sure it’s not just because he’s the only partner you’ve ever had?”

“I did have that ill-advised week as Dennis Creevy’s mentor-slash-partner while Draco had some business with his mother in France,” Harry pointed out.

“That hardly counts. He didn’t even become an Auror in the end. But you know what I mean. How do you work with him?” Ron asked, genuinely curious. 

“No, it’s not always like this,” Harry said, feeling a bit defensive. “Think of it from our side. We’ve been working together for ten years. We have a system. We have a way of working together. Having all of these other hands in the pot, yourself and Hermione included, is a bit of a change of protocol.” 

Ron shot Harry a dubious look before lifting up the welcome mat that lay in front of the side door. 

“You don’t have to believe me, Ron,” Harry continued. “But would you be asking if my partner wasn’t Draco?”

“That depends. Is this other partner a git?” He dropped the welcome mat back onto the stoop and gave Harry an innocent look. 

Harry just laughed and shook his head at his friend. He knew that there had been a begrudging acceptance of the partnership between himself and Draco, but he also knew that Ron had never really understood. Any hope that this case would help Ron understand seemed to be fading away, and his best friend and his partner were falling back into their old habits – something that happened whenever they were subjected to each other for long periods of time (an occasion usually reserved for the Ministry Christmas party). 

“Come on,” Harry said nodding towards the back of the house. “I’m not seeing any signs of a break-in, magical or not. Let’s see if Draco’s found anything.”

Harry and Ron made their way into the back garden. It was small but well kept, with a tiny vegetable patch along the fence and a bench in the back. Here and there were scattered toys, signs of the toddler whose disappearance they were investigating. 

Draco was lounging on the bench in a pose that at first glance looked casual, but as Harry approached he could see the concern across his partner's face. As soon as Draco looked up and caught his eye, Harry knew that he’d found the same signs, the same traces of Dark Magic. 

“It’s the same person, or the same group, using the same spell,” Draco said as Harry and Ron reached him. “I can see that there was Dark Magic performed, but I don’t know what spell they’ve been using.”

“But why target Muggle children? If they’re from our world, what good would Muggle children do?” Harry asked. 

“Maybe they’re going to make an example of them? You know, like You-Know, I mean, Voldemort did with the Muggle killings?” Ron suggested. 

“Then they would have done something already,” Draco said. “No one in our world knows that this is even happening. If they were going for something shocking and dramatic, they would have made their move already, and it would have been public.”

All three men were rendered silent as they contemplated the implications of this. 

Ron finally broke the silence. “Do you think there are any Muggles involved at all?”

“That, Weasley, is a good question,” Draco said, then catching the smile on Ron’s face added, “You’re not so useless after all.”

Draco winked at Harry, and they both pretended not to notice Ron flush to the tips of his ears. 

Fifteen minutes later, they were still discussing potential theories, when Ron started fidgeting with his watch, and they all realized that Hermione should have already rejoined them. Ron bolted from the back garden, and came to a skidding halt in front of one of the officers.

“Have you seen––” Ron started, breathing heavily. 

“And who are you?” the officer asked. She was giving Ron an annoyed look.

“Ron. Weasley. Consultant. Case. Wife.”

“What?”

By this time, Harry and Draco had arrived.

“I can’t believe you work for the Department of Games and Sports and you’re that out of shape,” Draco sneered.

“Look, this is a crime scene,” the officer said, rounding on Draco.

“Yes, we’re here for that reason,” Draco said. “We’re working with Sherlock Holmes.”

The look on the woman’s face would have been comical if the three wizards hadn’t been worried that something had gone very wrong with Hermione’s interview. But with the traces of Dark Magic around all three were worried, even if Draco would deny it later. 

“We don’t need anyone else around mucking up our crime scenes, so you can just tell that freak he’s not needed. And neither are you.”

“Look,” Harry said cutting off Ron and Draco, who both looked ready to start a row. “We’re on special assignment, maybe Lestrade didn’t tell you, Officer...?”

“Donovan. Sergeant Donovan.”

“Sergeant Donovan. You see, our partner is in the house interviewing the family and we’re just wondering if you’ve heard anything, or if anything’s happened. She’s been in there a lot longer that we would have expected.”

“Your partner, was she about this tall,” Donovan gestured a height slightly shorter than herself, “big brown hair?”

“Yes! Did she have information for you? Is she still with the family?”

“No, she left about twenty minutes ago. Practically flew out of the house and only stopped long enough to say she’d check back in with everyone later,” Donovan said with a shrug. 

“Maybe she went back to Baker Street?” Draco suggested.

“Without us? No,” Ron said. “If I know Hermione, she’s run off because she’s figured something out and couldn’t wait to see if she was right.”

Harry sighed, agreeing with Ron’s assessment. 

“Baker Street’s as good a place to wait as any,” he said, catching the worried look in his best friend’s eyes. He dug his mobile out of his pocket and started slowly manipulating the keys in order to send a text to John. “Either she’ll turn up or we’ll work out where to start looking.”

“See,” Donovan said. “This is what happens when you associate with Sherlock Holmes. People try to prove they can be just as clever, and then they get hurt. I’d stay well away from him if I were you.”

“Yes, very helpful, thank you,” Draco snapped. “We’ll be sure to keep that in mind when we’re not in the middle of this tiresome crime-solving thing.”


End file.
